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Description
An illustrated title for the short story that I wrote titled "Wolves of New York". It was originally just something for fun, may even be used for something more, but now I'm actually handing it in as a school assignment. Have fun!

Hooper ran through the dark streets, the wind combing through his hair. His bright eyes frantically darted in random directions as he kept near the steaming gutter. His heart was pounding in his chest on a mostly lifeless street. This city was the breeding ground of juvenile delinquency, heroine, and the shaking cold metal in the hands of those who may as well have the power of God, feeling large as they strolled the city deciding who lives and who dies. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Someone had once told Hooper that one did not choose this life. He always spat at the thought. Bullshit. But in a sense, why wasn't the statement bothering him? It was as if he could relate to it. The wise one who had reminded him knew very well that he could relate, else he wouldn't have mentioned it. The sound of shattered glass up ahead brought Hooper to a halt as he pricked up his ears for a moment. He snorted and veered into an alley, altering his originally planned course. Fog crept out of the grates of sewers and off the heavy machinery resting up against graffiti stained walls. Posters littered the walls as trash and newspapers holding hoaxes and lies littered the ground. Rats squealing with surprise as he made his entrance. Effortlessly cutting through the fog as he ran, his peculiar shadow was casted against the wall, the shadow he did not dare to glance at. The shadow that perfectly described his personality. Instead, he decided to keep his eyes before him, taking note of the disgust that he ran through. Green lights, spilled trash, splattered and dried brown stuff that Hooper knew better than anyone what it could be, the most racially disturbing messages embedded into the wall, rusted tin signs, puddles of God knows what; the place reminded him of a trashy eighties movie. A sneer crossed his face. It was hilarious how much this place suited him. Hooper came to realize that he spent most of his time complaining about the city he grew up in. The thought always ended in remembering that it was people like him that made this gunk-fest what it was.
Only one person clouded the mind of Hooper. One so well known on these streets. The one he visited more frequently than he would admit, something he felt that he had to do, like he owed it. A low growl sounded off in the base of his throat as he summoned the strength in his legs that sprung himself upward onto the fire escape. A flash of illumination caught his eye as he flew through the air that left him dumbstruck. Though... there was no light emanating from anywhere. Gripping onto the rusted, out dated fire escape ladder, Hooper took the time to look at his hands... the hands that he would give anything to rid himself of. His upper lip twitched as he recalled every person's blood to spray across his fingers. It hadn't gotten any better in his current state. He sighed and started up the ladder. He deserved every part of it. The gaze of the troubled man crossed the window of the one he came to visit. Adjusting his leather jacket and jeans which he struggled to keep on his body as he ran, he forced the locked window to open with unusual strength. The room was dark but certainly not vacant, he hoisted himself on the window sill, but did not dare to enter the room. The familiar scent filled his nostrils as a stirring came about the room. A light flicked on.
“Good morning detective...” he said almost in a bitter whisper.
The bare chested man yawned, stretched and glanced at his microwave. 4:33 AM. He returned his gaze to the silhouette of the man before him.
“Good night.”
Hooper heaved a sigh.
“I know it's not the best time.”
“No time besides now really is,” said the detective as he started the coffee, “How's the underworld been treating ya?”
Hooper winced as he rubbed his stomach.
“Causing some indigestion as we speak.”
“I see that,” he pointed to his own chin, “you got a little 'serial killer' right here.”
Hooper chuckled as he wiped the blood that had been dripping from his chin.
“edophile, actually, thanks for noticing.”
A thought must've popped into the mind of the detective, his relaxed expression suddenly went stern.
“Doesn't mean I approve of your methods.”
The criminal shook his head.
“You know it's not like that, you know I can't stop this.”
He listened as he poured fresh coffee into a mug adding cream, sugar... every little necessity. He turned back towards the window as he leaned against the counter.
“I know... I just find it odd that you go after the same class of people I do. Guilt?”
Hopper lowered his shoulders, once tense, now relaxing.
“You have no idea.”
There was a moment of silence as the detective nodded. His face held sympathy for him. It was odd, if it had been anyone else who had done the same things Hooper had done, he wouldn't hold the same feeling. But since it was Hooper, feared as much as he was respected in the dark depths of the city, he was sympathetic. Hunting down scum was his own way of apologizing. He even had his own nick name given to him by what he still considers to be the “norms” of society for the deeds that his nightly form had made him do. The “Black Wolf of New York”. Cops couldn't stop him back in the day, they certainly can't stop him now. There may be more like him, it was unrecorded though. It was for sure that there was something out there stalking the citizens... something... that's what disturbed Hooper most of all. He had to be the thing.
“Why don't you come in and sit down?”
Hooper shifted uncomfortably where he sat, resisting the urge.
“Sorry Goodman, I don't think I can do that without coating your walls in your own blood.”
Detective Goodman's stomach knotted. He put it a little more morbidly than it had to be. Then again, what decency could you have being the thing he was?
“Hey... I know I say this a lot,” Hooper awkwardly scratched the back of his head, “but I really feel like I should tell you again...”
“Hooper-”
“No...” he interrupted, unable to meet his eyes, “I really can't tell how sorry I am for... that one night.”
Goodman stared at the reflection in his coffee. Wiping a hand across his stubbled face and side burns, he wanted to go for a different look. That's when the words began to sink in, seeping into every last nerve. Eyebrows pulled together, he glared at the ring on the end table beside the couch. The moon's light left an innocent shine on the diamond, glittering as it told him stories he had heard before. Hooper looked at it too, a nasty feeling squirming around in the pit of his stomach. That was what the human half of him felt, the civilized half. His other half had his heart racing, his mouth watering, his mind narrowed in on the thrill of the chase. A sudden craving to sink his teeth into his prey as he revisited the memory of raking his claws across the naked chest of Mrs. Goodman, running down her stomach. His jaws locked on her throat when she tried to scream, soaking the snow white sheets in a crimson red. He could feel the warmth of the blood splattered on his chin, chest, arms... everywhere. It was a scene straight from a horror movie for Goodman. He would never be the same after that, Hooper knew.
“You have a little crazy in your eye,” said Goodman.
The once chocolate brown eyes of Hooper had flared into the brightest yellow that pierced his soul every time they rested on him. The eyes of the creature of the night. Brought on by a simple thought. Hooper blinked a couple times to adjust them back to their normal state. He sighed.
“I can't ever make it up to you. If there's anything I can do, anything at all... just say the word. It's done man... it's done.”
All that was heard at the moment were the sounds of New York, the yelling of distant conflicts, the shrieks of startled women, smashing bottles, the disturbing post-paid love sounds muffled by closed curtains. Every single thing that made this city what it was. All that was missing was his own participation.
“Tell me this, Hooper... just how lonely is the Black Wolf of New York?”
Hooper had always been one to receive the strangest questions, but never one like this, not under the circumstances. He knew exactly what Goodman was trying to ask, but it came out of no where.
“Very...” was all he could say.
“And that's why you could never understand how it feels, that's why you keep apologizing. You assume that it's the worst thing that can happen to a person.”
Hooper was puzzled.
“Isn't it?”
“Let me tell you something about Jane... I wasn't the only one to have eyes for her... she was quite a busy person if you know what I mean.”
“Oh Christ, I'm so sorry, man...”
“Don't be, because whatever the hell you're going through must be a million times worse than what you put me through. You can't even hold down a relationship. Not then... not now. But it's not your fault... I would know.”
Goodman flashed Hooper a new set of eyes, stunning him. He froze at the sudden change. He was confused... wasn't Jane the only one he bit? He was a bit fuzzy, his life was one big giant hangover, always regretting the night before. Goodman grinned and shrugged.
“All I can say is save some room on the streets, my friend.”
Hooper didn't know what to think, but he was sure that he had started something huge. This sudden change in Goodman disturbed him. Goodman didn't seem to be a “Good Man” any longer.
“You feel bad about what you did because you know that there's no law that can restrain you. You're truly above it all, aren't you?”
“You know I don't want to be...”
Goodman chuckled.
“It's been a week and already I'm worse than you. Devoured twenty-six hookers. Twenty-six. Reminded me of Jane – all of them...”
The full moon rested in the sky. Goodman turned away from the sight and towards the smiling picture of him and Jane, in the days when he had sported a buzz cut and their love was true. Or, at least he had been naïve enough to believe that. The good days... Goodman had been a hero in the concrete jungle chasing down scum like Hooper and coming home to a friendly blonde woman in short-shorts and a tank top with her hair pulled back into a pony tail. A person who always brightened his day. He was forced to dismiss it, looking back into the bright yellow eyes of his former arch nemesis who now took on the appearance of something... a little more “lupine”. He sat still in mysterious black fur coat covered by a leather jacket and jeans that didn't fit this new body. He stared blankly, yet, with intensity. Goodman was lost in the eyes of the Black Wolf, the most feared creature of the night to streak the streets of New York,
“Be seeing you, Hooper,” Goodman said in a murmur, eyes locked in awe.
Without a sound, Hooper turned away and slipped off into the pre-dawn light. Goodman himself stepped towards the window catching only a glimpse of his silhouette dancing along the dirty alley wall in some sort of twisted shadow play. He looked at the light skimming along the edges of the skyscrapers before him. Goodman didn't realize how long Hooper had been there for, but everyone was waking up. He often wondered what kind of life did Hooper take on during the day. He scratched the back of his neck, leaned against the side of the window frame, and took a sip of his coffee before pondering. Licking the coffee-stache from his upper lip, he glanced at the clock, not able to care less whether or not he was late for work. As the sun struggled its way into the sky, one thought was clear to him:
“As the new dawn fades, so do the wolves of New York.”

Copyright - Stephanie Hughes October Sunday 4th, 2009

Description
An illustrated title for the short story that I wrote titled "Wolves of New York". It was originally just something for fun, may even be used for something more, but now I'm actually handing it in as a school assignment. Have fun!

Hooper ran through the dark streets, the wind combing through his hair. His bright eyes frantically darted in random directions as he kept near the steaming gutter. His heart was pounding in his chest on a mostly lifeless street. This city was the breeding ground of juvenile delinquency, heroine, and the shaking cold metal in the hands of those who may as well have the power of God, feeling large as they strolled the city deciding who lives and who dies. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Someone had once told Hooper that one did not choose this life. He always spat at the thought. Bullshit. But in a sense, why wasn't the statement bothering him? It was as if he could relate to it. The wise one who had reminded him knew very well that he could relate, else he wouldn't have mentioned it. The sound of shattered glass up ahead brought Hooper to a halt as he pricked up his ears for a moment. He snorted and veered into an alley, altering his originally planned course. Fog crept out of the grates of sewers and off the heavy machinery resting up against graffiti stained walls. Posters littered the walls as trash and newspapers holding hoaxes and lies littered the ground. Rats squealing with surprise as he made his entrance. Effortlessly cutting through the fog as he ran, his peculiar shadow was casted against the wall, the shadow he did not dare to glance at. The shadow that perfectly described his personality. Instead, he decided to keep his eyes before him, taking note of the disgust that he ran through. Green lights, spilled trash, splattered and dried brown stuff that Hooper knew better than anyone what it could be, the most racially disturbing messages embedded into the wall, rusted tin signs, puddles of God knows what; the place reminded him of a trashy eighties movie. A sneer crossed his face. It was hilarious how much this place suited him. Hooper came to realize that he spent most of his time complaining about the city he grew up in. The thought always ended in remembering that it was people like him that made this gunk-fest what it was.
Only one person clouded the mind of Hooper. One so well known on these streets. The one he visited more frequently than he would admit, something he felt that he had to do, like he owed it. A low growl sounded off in the base of his throat as he summoned the strength in his legs that sprung himself upward onto the fire escape. A flash of illumination caught his eye as he flew through the air that left him dumbstruck. Though... there was no light emanating from anywhere. Gripping onto the rusted, out dated fire escape ladder, Hooper took the time to look at his hands... the hands that he would give anything to rid himself of. His upper lip twitched as he recalled every person's blood to spray across his fingers. It hadn't gotten any better in his current state. He sighed and started up the ladder. He deserved every part of it. The gaze of the troubled man crossed the window of the one he came to visit. Adjusting his leather jacket and jeans which he struggled to keep on his body as he ran, he forced the locked window to open with unusual strength. The room was dark but certainly not vacant, he hoisted himself on the window sill, but did not dare to enter the room. The familiar scent filled his nostrils as a stirring came about the room. A light flicked on.
“Good morning detective...” he said almost in a bitter whisper.
The bare chested man yawned, stretched and glanced at his microwave. 4:33 AM. He returned his gaze to the silhouette of the man before him.
“Good night.”
Hooper heaved a sigh.
“I know it's not the best time.”
“No time besides now really is,” said the detective as he started the coffee, “How's the underworld been treating ya?”
Hooper winced as he rubbed his stomach.
“Causing some indigestion as we speak.”
“I see that,” he pointed to his own chin, “you got a little 'serial killer' right here.”
Hooper chuckled as he wiped the blood that had been dripping from his chin.
“edophile, actually, thanks for noticing.”
A thought must've popped into the mind of the detective, his relaxed expression suddenly went stern.
“Doesn't mean I approve of your methods.”
The criminal shook his head.
“You know it's not like that, you know I can't stop this.”
He listened as he poured fresh coffee into a mug adding cream, sugar... every little necessity. He turned back towards the window as he leaned against the counter.
“I know... I just find it odd that you go after the same class of people I do. Guilt?”
Hopper lowered his shoulders, once tense, now relaxing.
“You have no idea.”
There was a moment of silence as the detective nodded. His face held sympathy for him. It was odd, if it had been anyone else who had done the same things Hooper had done, he wouldn't hold the same feeling. But since it was Hooper, feared as much as he was respected in the dark depths of the city, he was sympathetic. Hunting down scum was his own way of apologizing. He even had his own nick name given to him by what he still considers to be the “norms” of society for the deeds that his nightly form had made him do. The “Black Wolf of New York”. Cops couldn't stop him back in the day, they certainly can't stop him now. There may be more like him, it was unrecorded though. It was for sure that there was something out there stalking the citizens... something... that's what disturbed Hooper most of all. He had to be the thing.
“Why don't you come in and sit down?”
Hooper shifted uncomfortably where he sat, resisting the urge.
“Sorry Goodman, I don't think I can do that without coating your walls in your own blood.”
Detective Goodman's stomach knotted. He put it a little more morbidly than it had to be. Then again, what decency could you have being the thing he was?
“Hey... I know I say this a lot,” Hooper awkwardly scratched the back of his head, “but I really feel like I should tell you again...”
“Hooper-”
“No...” he interrupted, unable to meet his eyes, “I really can't tell how sorry I am for... that one night.”
Goodman stared at the reflection in his coffee. Wiping a hand across his stubbled face and side burns, he wanted to go for a different look. That's when the words began to sink in, seeping into every last nerve. Eyebrows pulled together, he glared at the ring on the end table beside the couch. The moon's light left an innocent shine on the diamond, glittering as it told him stories he had heard before. Hooper looked at it too, a nasty feeling squirming around in the pit of his stomach. That was what the human half of him felt, the civilized half. His other half had his heart racing, his mouth watering, his mind narrowed in on the thrill of the chase. A sudden craving to sink his teeth into his prey as he revisited the memory of raking his claws across the naked chest of Mrs. Goodman, running down her stomach. His jaws locked on her throat when she tried to scream, soaking the snow white sheets in a crimson red. He could feel the warmth of the blood splattered on his chin, chest, arms... everywhere. It was a scene straight from a horror movie for Goodman. He would never be the same after that, Hooper knew.
“You have a little crazy in your eye,” said Goodman.
The once chocolate brown eyes of Hooper had flared into the brightest yellow that pierced his soul every time they rested on him. The eyes of the creature of the night. Brought on by a simple thought. Hooper blinked a couple times to adjust them back to their normal state. He sighed.
“I can't ever make it up to you. If there's anything I can do, anything at all... just say the word. It's done man... it's done.”
All that was heard at the moment were the sounds of New York, the yelling of distant conflicts, the shrieks of startled women, smashing bottles, the disturbing post-paid love sounds muffled by closed curtains. Every single thing that made this city what it was. All that was missing was his own participation.
“Tell me this, Hooper... just how lonely is the Black Wolf of New York?”
Hooper had always been one to receive the strangest questions, but never one like this, not under the circumstances. He knew exactly what Goodman was trying to ask, but it came out of no where.
“Very...” was all he could say.
“And that's why you could never understand how it feels, that's why you keep apologizing. You assume that it's the worst thing that can happen to a person.”
Hooper was puzzled.
“Isn't it?”
“Let me tell you something about Jane... I wasn't the only one to have eyes for her... she was quite a busy person if you know what I mean.”
“Oh Christ, I'm so sorry, man...”
“Don't be, because whatever the hell you're going through must be a million times worse than what you put me through. You can't even hold down a relationship. Not then... not now. But it's not your fault... I would know.”
Goodman flashed Hooper a new set of eyes, stunning him. He froze at the sudden change. He was confused... wasn't Jane the only one he bit? He was a bit fuzzy, his life was one big giant hangover, always regretting the night before. Goodman grinned and shrugged.
“All I can say is save some room on the streets, my friend.”
Hooper didn't know what to think, but he was sure that he had started something huge. This sudden change in Goodman disturbed him. Goodman didn't seem to be a “Good Man” any longer.
“You feel bad about what you did because you know that there's no law that can restrain you. You're truly above it all, aren't you?”
“You know I don't want to be...”
Goodman chuckled.
“It's been a week and already I'm worse than you. Devoured twenty-six hookers. Twenty-six. Reminded me of Jane – all of them...”
The full moon rested in the sky. Goodman turned away from the sight and towards the smiling picture of him and Jane, in the days when he had sported a buzz cut and their love was true. Or, at least he had been naïve enough to believe that. The good days... Goodman had been a hero in the concrete jungle chasing down scum like Hooper and coming home to a friendly blonde woman in short-shorts and a tank top with her hair pulled back into a pony tail. A person who always brightened his day. He was forced to dismiss it, looking back into the bright yellow eyes of his former arch nemesis who now took on the appearance of something... a little more “lupine”. He sat still in mysterious black fur coat covered by a leather jacket and jeans that didn't fit this new body. He stared blankly, yet, with intensity. Goodman was lost in the eyes of the Black Wolf, the most feared creature of the night to streak the streets of New York,
“Be seeing you, Hooper,” Goodman said in a murmur, eyes locked in awe.
Without a sound, Hooper turned away and slipped off into the pre-dawn light. Goodman himself stepped towards the window catching only a glimpse of his silhouette dancing along the dirty alley wall in some sort of twisted shadow play. He looked at the light skimming along the edges of the skyscrapers before him. Goodman didn't realize how long Hooper had been there for, but everyone was waking up. He often wondered what kind of life did Hooper take on during the day. He scratched the back of his neck, leaned against the side of the window frame, and took a sip of his coffee before pondering. Licking the coffee-stache from his upper lip, he glanced at the clock, not able to care less whether or not he was late for work. As the sun struggled its way into the sky, one thought was clear to him:
“As the new dawn fades, so do the wolves of New York.”

Copyright - Stephanie Hughes October Sunday 4th, 2009